


life was a willow (and it bent right to your wind)

by HackedByAWriter



Series: i turned our lives into folklore [3]
Category: Shubh Mangal Zyada Saavdhan (2020)
Genre: Angst, Based on a Taylor Swift Song, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Smut, Song: willow (Taylor Swift), Songfic, poetic sexual content, the night before 377
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:15:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28214571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HackedByAWriter/pseuds/HackedByAWriter
Summary: It is the night before the decision about 377 is announced. Aman shows Kartik his childhood room.
Relationships: Kartik Singh/Aman Tripathi
Series: i turned our lives into folklore [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2059014
Comments: 26
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I blame Taylor Swift and the edit Bhoomi made.
> 
> I hate you all.
> 
> Enjoy.

_I'm like the water when your ship rolled in that night_

_Rough on the surface but you cut through like a knife_

A turban and a kalgi are a symbol of pride and royalty. 

Aman had heard that exact phrase spoken through many lips, he had heard it more time than he could count. Even now he could feel the eyes of a thousand of kings of the past looking down on him from the frosty stars above. But their burning gazes were of no matter to him. Not anymore. There was only one pair of eyes that mattered. They were Kartik’s, they had always been Kartik’s.

_And if it was an open-shut case_

_I never would've known from that look on your face_

_Lost in your current like a priceless wine_

Holding his gaze, slowly, deliberately Aman took off the gold and red turban. 

He let it, this long-held symbol of one’s pride, one’s _shaan_ , one's _izzat_ , - call it what you will - fall to the ground, in the courtyard that thousands had already trampled upon. He had held himself on a pedestal for so long, the falling felt more like flying. Aman had decided then and there he did not need any of it. He did not need their version of pride, the one that had been held nigh for centuries. 

He had his own standing before him.

_As if you were a mythical thing_

_Like you were a trophy or a champion ring_

_And there was one prize I'd cheat to win_

Kartik Singh may be standing before him in a pink Mario ‘Game Over’ T-Shirt, but Aman’s mind had already turned his lover in to folklore. For him Kartik would always be the man who stood on the terrace, the sunlight gleaming on his skin, pride flag fluttering behind him, a royal banner, poised for war, ready to be stained with blood.

Kartik was his downfall, his muse, his hero, the king of his heart.

Kartik Singh was his pride and no one could take that away from him.

So when his lover - no, not just that - his husband looked at him, when he laughed at the ridiculousness of their situation, Aman could not help but fall into his embrace. Even if it was the last time they would ever do so.

The gods only knew what the dawn would bring. 

_Life was a willow_

_and it bent right to your wind_

For the first time in many years, Kartik felt as if he were within the arms of family. Family was no longer just a shadow of his past. It was alive and roared like the flamed that he and Aman had circled, singing ‘Yeh Dosti’ from the top of their lungs. It was alive like the flames that Rajni was circling right now, proclaiming her liberty and self-worth. All the while Aman’s hands remained securely in his, desperately clinging to him, as if this newfound happiness could slip away and it very well could. The validity of section 377 was still in the air, after all.

After the fanfare died down Aman turned to him. 

“Have I ever shown you my room?”

In the madness that had been the last few days, they did not have time for such simple niceties. And for once before their possible arrest, he wanted to spend some time doing something normal.

“No,” he said. “Show me.”

He let Aman lead him up the stairs, the same stairs that had only yesterday ran up, branding him as a traitor. Kartik would be lying if he said that the moment had not hurt him, bruised him, beaten him worse than Shankar Tripathi’s stick. 

They walked them together and Kartik could not help but feel the same emotions, the abandonment. The loneliness.He had felt it the day his father had beaten the shit out of him for the last time, practically left him for dead. 

The only increased as he passed the countless family photos that hung over the walls of Aman’s home. The birthdays, the pranks, the laughter. The small embarrassing moments. The holidays. The reluctant whole family portraits. All the things Kartik never had.

_They count me out_

_time and time again_

But Kartik forgave him. As he always did. He went into the room that was Aman’s. The walls were a pale pastel blue colour, plastered with even more photographs, posters of Star Wars (no surprise there) and old Hindi films. As well as long-forgotten maths formulas from highschool. 

A particular poster caught his attention.

“You used to like Pokemon.”

Aman looked back at him slightly embarrassed. “I had the biggest crush on Ash you have no idea.”

Kartik laughed “That’s fucking adorable.”

They - more accurately Kartik- spent the next few moments taking in Aman’s childhood room. As he looked more things caught his attention. And old mangy stuff bear, a map of constellations, a neat pile of books and a vintage collection of records. Kartik could not help but feel his heart warm at the sight of all this. He was seeing more layers to Aman, he was understanding him better.

Kartik looked at his husband now wondering how lucky he was to find someone so beautiful. How lucky he was to find someone so brave yet so fucking sweet. How lucky he was to find someone who would meet him where the spirit met the bones.

“Kartik,” came Aman’s voice, distant and hollow. “I’m sorry.”

_The more that you say_

_The less I know_

_Wherever you stray_

_I follow_

Kartik cocked his head to the side. As far as he was concerned there was nothing to forgive. 

“I don’t understand Aman. Don’t you see? I’m proud of you.”

Aman shook his head. “I should have fought them instead of running away. I should have fought them every damn step of the way. I should have-”

He took one step towards Aman, cutting him off mid-sentence. His took his face in his hands, wiping his tears away with his thumb.

“You fought them in the end.”

“It very well might be too late.” the direction of the courtyard, the presence of the police officers hung heavy between them.

“Yes,” Kartik whispered the weight of it all sinking into his bones.

“I’ve hurt you,” Aman’s eyes went to the bruises the peaked on his arms. A sight that was so familiar to Kartik that he did not question it. But Aman had never seen him like this before. “You deserve better than me Kartik, you always did you-”

Kartik’s grip on his face tightened.

“Don’t you dare-” Kartik pressed their foreheads together, breathing him in. “Don’t you dare give up on me, on us. Please.”

Aman started to sob. Letting out everything that had stayed in his heart that day. The pain the hurt, the anger. He had been strong for so long. Stronger than Kartik ever would be. As steady as the flow of the Ganga. As stern as the steel of his father’s workshop.

Kartik understood that he needed this. This moment to break to let go. So he let him weep. Holding him all the while, as Aman had always done whenever Kartik would have a nightmare. He had to make up for all the nights that Aman gave him a safe haven, the nights that Aman had shielded him, made him feel protected. 

He had to do the same.

So when Aman looked up him again, Kartik pressed his lips against his. The world had already branded them as sinners. There was no point in holding back. In that moment he felt the world tumble away from him. Felt it slip beneath his feet, fall away like snow. No, not falling. The world did not fall, it was a constant.

It was them. They were flying. Above all, above others.

It was like how it used to be. 

Almost. 

_And I’ll come back_

_Stronger than a 90s trend_

It was a happiness that was distilled, even if a sword still hung over their heads. Aman wondered if this was what prisoners felt when they were on death row. The suspension of time, the moments prolonging themselves. Yet at the same time, he knew that it was an illusion, for time was certainly against them. It was small mercy then that they were able to have this, these quiet moments alone together.

Aman let the kiss linger. He let Kartik hold him closer.

He willed the moment to go slower. He willed himself to notice every detail. The way Kartik’s hands felt against his cheeks. The callouses from the days he used to help his father at his blacksmith shop in Punjab. The way his lips moved, the their softness. They way they still spent sparks shooting through every vein of his body. 

And he wanted more. He wanted all of him. Once again before it was all over. So he pulled away to the sound of Kartik breathing heavily. 

“I won’t,” he said.

“You won’t what?” asked Kartik.

“Give up.” he tried to smile. “Where you go, I’m going too. I won’t give up.”

“Even if its the end of the world?”

“Even if its death,” Aman confirmed.

It was a harrowing prospect. So many lovers before them had followed that path. Shit. They had grown up on those stories. _Laila Majnun. Heer Ranja. Sohni Mahiwal. Sassi Panun. Mirza Sahiba._ Were their tale destined to be a part of _that_ folklore. A part of a long line of tragedy?

Aman found he did not care. Whatever the morrow would bring he wanted to show Kartik once again that he loved him, loved him to the very place where his soul resided. So he tangled himself further in the Kartik’s embrace. Holding him impossibly close.

When he kissed him again, it was under a haze of violent longing, a rush of gold and the crush of bones. 

_I would die for you._ His body said as it pressed itself against Kartik’s.

_I would kill for you._ His hands whispered as they slipped under Kartik’s shirt, brushing against the bare skin of his of hip. 

Aman's lips left Kartik’s, if only by a few millimetres, he hesitated, asking, waiting for permission. 

_Wait for the signal and I'll meet you after dark_

_Show me the places where the others gave you scars_

Kartik looked at him, the way one would look at art. He stood still, slowly his hands went over Aman’s. For a moment Aman thought he was going to remove it, and tell him no. But Kartik only pressed the closer to him, so that Aman’s whole palm was clasping his side. 

“I don’t want us to hold back,” he said. “Not for tonight.”

“Are you sure?”

Kartik answered by slipping his beloved pink Mario shirt over his head dropping it to the floor of Aman’s childhood bedroom. He wore his scars proudly for Aman to see. The bruises wrought by Shankar Tripathi stood stark in the low lamplight of his room. Pools of dark ink staining the words of a book that was holy. But it did not matter Aman had already memorised the prayers. 

In the moonlight, the other scars stood out. Slivers of white lines, almost faded. The scars from his blacksmith of a father. If you could even call him that.

_You’ll learn_ Aman had said. _That the hand of a blacksmith and a scientist are the same when it strikes out. For they are both fathers._

He wished it had not been true. He wished...he wished so many things. 

Kartik took his hand and placed it against his chest, just above his beating heart. His eyes sparkled with so much love it was a miracle that Aman didn’t fall to his knees then and there. For they seemed to say _you will be in my heart, no matter what._

_Now this is an open-shut case_

_Guess I should've known from the look on your face_

_Every bait and switch was a work of art_

When Kartik had first seen him in that horrible gold sherwani that morning after his pitai he had not been able to recognise him, the Aman he loved. He had seen only a hollow space, wearing his lover’s skin, adorned in false opulence and false promises.

Kartik’s whole being had been in a riot. _This is not you. This will never be you._

But tonight as he shed the attire of his false marriage, Kartik once again saw the Aman he knew. The beautiful man who he had met at that college party when Kartik still wore that damned cream coloured comfort sweater of his. The man who’s arms worked better than any sweater. The man who would go along with each and every idea of his, no matter how reckless. 

Kartik’s whole being was in riot now too. _I want you. I need you. I love you._

He willed it, the time, the next couple of hours to still, to last for a lifetime, rather than become small flickers and moments. He memorised Aman, as one would memorise a poem.

In his mind, he etched his lover’s parted lips, his mussed hair. He memorised the lines of his neck, the feel of his hips, the laughter and the sound of his own name on his tongue. He memorised the warmth of his thighs, the feeling of his hands and the sounds of his soft sighs. He memorised his eyes, those brilliant things that seemed to encapsulate all the fury of a storm and all the peace of an autumn night. The gods only knew when he would be able to see all this again.

Their bodies were in conversation with the universe. They seemed to ask again and again.

_What would you do if we wrote our own lives into folklore? What would you do if we lost ourselves in this moment? What would you do if we won?_

And in the quiet moments, as the fire between them dimmed into a steady smouldering of embers, as Aman rested his head on his chest, Kartik thought of home.

_You know that my train could take you home_

_Anywhere else is hollow_

Home was not Punjab. It was not Allahabad. It was not even Delhi. 

Home had always been in Aman. For the first time, he felt as if he could be Aman’s home too, that he could finally take him there, after years of feeling as if he was naught but a fleeting fancy.

_One day our home will become a dreamland, we will bring the roots of Allahabad and Delhi there too. Nurture those plants into something new and beautiful._

Aman shifted. Slowly he brought his hand away from where it was resting against Kartik’s chest, just above his heart. He tangled his fingers through Kartik’s own, clasping his hand securely. Kartik felt him smile against his skin.

_I'm begging for you to take my hand_

_Wreck my plans_

_That's my man_

  
  


__________________________

Bhoomi's edit for [willow](https://www.instagram.com/p/CI4tMQNBl1Q/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link)


	2. moodboard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bc I have decided to make a moodboard for the next fic in this series I thought it would a good idea to make one for every fic in this series so far <3

Here's one for willow


End file.
